The first born daughter is always a human sacrifice. Even if she is the first of 5. First, she is a failure. There's hope nestled in the arms of her parents And that hope isn't her. It's a boy they will never have. The Lord can have her. Mercy. Next, she is a curse The first rains that usher in the floods And kill our tubers of yam. Even good things in excess are bad What about women in excess? Next your mother is a blunt cutlass, More like a metal slab The cuts she makes are brutish But she must clear a path l that would lead to gold After the third she is a market woman Plying her trade with her uneducated, first born mother. Her sisters learn what it means to love books Your mother learns she isn't enough. The king still dreams of an heir. Your mother is an elephant - White and domesticated Her walls reach her knees but she doesn't know how to jump or fight. Elephants just can't jump. She'll teach her children not to fight either. There's gold at the tunnel's end But your mother is the road, Her bones are ground into dust Her blood nourishes the Impala lily that flank her body. And your world would end at her fingernails tip While her sisters dance in a city of gold.